


The Sun Will Rise

by glassbridges



Category: Hermitcraft RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Docm77 is half creeper, Gen, Griangst, Kinda but not really, Loneliness, Monsters, Post-Apocalypse, Zombie Apocalypse, some unexplained lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:53:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21579454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassbridges/pseuds/glassbridges
Summary: Grian has survived the end of the world. He's made it out of the epicenter of the zombie outbreak, gotten past the hordes of mutated spiders and undead skeletons, and has been desperately roaming the countryside, searching for his friends.His resolve, however, wanes with each passing day.In the end, it's not his determination that saves him, but someone else.
Relationships: Docm77 & Grian
Comments: 33
Kudos: 215





	The Sun Will Rise

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic, so I'm excited but also nervous!  
> I got inspired by all the great Hermitcraft stories here (shoutout to The Weight of Lies) and decided to write some angst
> 
> (and, of course, it ends up being a post end-of-the-world scenario like the zombie-apocalypse fan that I am)
> 
> I hope this makes sense, and the characterizations are believeable. Enjoy!

The loneliness has started encroaching into Grian's surroundings.

It's not an obvious change. His pack is solid against his body, his baseball bat sleek in his hands, the highway unwavering under his feet-- and yet, the world refuses to stay real. Everything, from the amber, setting sun to his long, darkening shadow against the pavement, feels artificial, wrapped in only a thin veneer of reality. He takes a deep breath, to steady himself, and the cold air throbs like static in his chest.

In a way, it was easier in the cities. Zombies were a constant threat, both in day and night, and it left no time for afterthoughts. There was Grian, and food, and zombies, and that was it.

The countryside is different. Here, the sun means safety, means quiet, and that means Grian has all the time in the world to think and fear and dread, before nightfall returns and brings the danger with it.

And that scares the hell out of him, because at the beginning of every sunrise he crawls out of whatever tree he was hiding in (and he's always hiding, now) and has to ask himself, _why?_ _What's the point to all of it?_

The answer used to be simple.

(Iskall. Mumbo.)

It was what he had clung to, during the first few weeks, and had remained his lifeline, despite everything. He just had to find them, and everything would be alright. They were out there, somewhere; they had to be, because Grian couldn't fathom any other option.

The sun takes away all of that, now. It blurs the boundaries and shines on things he would have rather left in the dark, breaks down doors he'd rather stay locked, because

_what if they're infected?_

_what if he never finds them?_

\--because it's wrong, he'll find them, they're fine, they have to be--

_what if they left, and he's alone?_

_...what if they're dead?_

Grian's hand aches. He's clenching his bat too hard. The night sky twinkles above him, the sun long gone.

He recognizes his mistake too late. A sharp hiss echoes behind him, and Grian has barely any time to react before he's abruptly falling to the floor. He looks upward into giant, bulbous red eyes, and has a split second where he sees himself reflected in it, a tired, pale, weak thing, and thinks, _oh_.

Then he clobbers the spider with his bat. The aluminum ricochets off the arachnid's torso with a sharp _thwack_ , and he's surging up and running in a heartbeat, adrenaline coursing through his veins, and suddenly _of course this is all real Grian you idiot you're going to die --_ he's back into survival mode, and the worries of reality or whatnot are very much eclipsed by, well, _staying alive_.

He's trapped, he realizes, threadbare sneakers pounding across the black tar. The opposite side of the highway is bordered by a tall, concrete barrier, and his side of the road is flanked with miles of dense forest-- useful for hiding, but not when it is filled with monsters he can barely see. As it is now, the moon is his only source of light, giving silvery illuminations to what would otherwise be shapeless silhouettes. The only option is to follow the highway.

Grian looks back.

Oh.  
Oh, that's a lot of spiders.

He backpedals suddenly as a handful of skeleton archers burst out of the trees ahead, moonlight gleaming on empty ribcages, before swallowing and sprinting even faster, barreling past the boney creatures. Skeletons are slow, much slower than spiders, and he would rather just deal with skeletons than let the spiders catch up and have to face them all at once. He hoists his pack up over his shoulders, covering his neck, and winces as an arrow nicks his thigh.

Several arrows sink into his backpack, and one manages to embed itself into Grian's arm, just above the elbow, but he grits his teeth and continues. He's mostly out of their range now, he hopes, and why the hell did sunrise decide to take its sweet time now, of all nights?

He's about to consider climbing the highway barrier after all-- he might be able to make it-- when a spider blindsides him from the shadows of the forest.

With a yelp, Grian is sent crashing to the pavement, driving the arrow further into his arm. He screams-- _fire, his arm's on fire_ \-- even as he raises his bat to meet the spider's snapping pincers. The spider shakes its head, attempting to free itself from the aluminum rod shoved into its jaws. Grian tries to use the moment of distraction and kick the spider off, but his foot only makes a dull thump against its exoskeleton.

Somewhere behind him, the sounds of chittering grow louder.

 _That would be the spiders,_ his brain chimes in helpfully.

The noise is accompanied by creaking bones.

_...and the skeletons._

The spider rears up suddenly, ripping its pincers free; but Grian has his bat back, as well, and this time, he nails it in the head with a loud _crunch_. He scrambles to get out from the mass of tangled limbs, when he glances upward and stops cold.

Creepers (at least, that's what he calls them) are very green, very rare, and very quiet.

They also have a nasty habit of exploding.

He stares guilelessly at the approaching mass of green.  
_Wow_ , his brain comments, as if it needed to be said. _That's a very close creeper._  
His arm is still on fire. His head is throbbing, a distant ringing echoing in his ears. His heart is pounding, hummingbird-fast. The creeper looks down at him, sizzling. And even as it starts to swell, skin turning a bright red, a blinding light approaches--

and is it the sun or the afterlife Grian can't tell

and is he dying? At least its not hurting, he supposes--

and _sorry Iskall, sorry Mumbo, sorry--_

* * *

Grian wakes, cold and disoriented, on damp, dew-covered grass. His ribs feel like they've been hit by a sledgehammer, and his mouth tastes of death. He squints against the painfully bright light and tries to get up. His left arm won't move, though, and his brain swims in confusion, trying to piece together what happened.

Wincing, he props himself up on an elbow, and he feels a heavy weight on his chest as he looks down and makes out... a sling? He blinks harder, shapes taking on details as his eyes adjust. Sure enough, his arm is bound in strips of ragged white cloth, resting across his thin red t-shirt (and that was why he was so cold, for crying out loud; where's his sweater?). He frowns at the makeshift bandage.

When had that appeared?

A rustle off to his side puts him on high alert. He shifts his head noiselessly, staying low to the ground in a futile attempt to avoid detection (he's right in the middle of the grass; there's no way he's going unnoticed) and bites back a startled shout.  
His bat and sweater lie, intact, near a thicket of shrubs, but that's not what he's concerned about.

There's someone messing with his pack. Grian catches a shade of deep green, and pales as the memories rush in. Creeper-- there was a spider, and then a creeper, and it was too close-- and he's still alive, _how is he still alive?_ \--and there's a creeper going through his bag and _he needs his bat, he's a sitting duck--_

The creeper shifts. Metal glints off the side of its head, and it catches Grian off guard, because what sort of creeper is made of metal?

Come to think of it, what creeper has arms and clothes and invades people's personal belongings?

He rises into a wobbly stance, legs shaky, and the figure seems to have finally noticed him, because it drops the pack and whips its head towards Grian. And maybe it's because Grian's eyes weren't fully adjusted, or he just caught the color green and panicked, but this is definitely not a creeper-- or, at least, not all of one. The right side of the stranger's face is quite familiar-- skin dark green, eye a soulless void of black-- but the other side is replaced by metal plates and steel bolts and a single, bright red lens.

Completing the whole ensemble is a head of scruffy brown hair and a loose, torn labcoat ( _oh,_ his mind says softly, _the sling--_ ), and the sight is so strange that Grian would have probably just continued staring, had it not been for the look on the person's face-- a wary, cautious expression that clearly means Grian was not at all meant to have waken up quite so soon. The not-creeper takes a step back, and although the movement is small, Grian catches on immediately.

"Wait," he croaks, and how long has it been since the last time he's spoken aloud? All of a sudden, Grian is desperate to speak, desperate to be heard or talked to or even recognized as a somebody, desperate for the barest glimmer of acknowledgement. The stranger stays, neither leaving nor speaking, just looking at Grian with pupil-less eyes that give nothing away, and Grian would like so very much to walk towards the first non-lethal being he's seen in-- weeks? months?-- but when he tries to take a step his vision darkens at the edges, and his limbs are swaying dangerously.

"Don't leave me," he says, throat raspy from neglect, and even he can recognize the pleading tone in his words. He knows he should be more cautious; even if this person isn't threatening him, he was going through his stuff-- but he doesn't care.

Grian can't read the stranger's eyes ( _dead eyes_ , his brain whispers, but soon quiets) so he waits, and hopes.

At last, the person moves, without answering, and his heart sinks in his chest. He watches helplessly as the stranger walks past him, to the road, where (and _how did he miss this_ ) an old-fashioned van, in faded pastel colors and and reinforced with chicken wire, sits off to the side.

But then he looks back at Grian, expectant.  
"Are you coming?"

The words are low and accented, but unmistakeable.

And he can't quite recall how he managed to stumble all the way to the van, but he's there, and his belongings have made their way into the trunk, and Grian's _somewhere_ now, not nowhere. He feels like he needs to thank the stranger, let him know the depth of what he's just done, but he can't find the words no matter how hard he tries.

"I'm Grian," he says instead, simply, and the stranger nods.

"Doc," he responds, shortly, and points at the backseats. "Get in. The passenger seat is off limits."

There isn't anybody he can see through the window, but Grian isn't about to push his luck. He slides onto the row of seats, and despite the worn leather covers, he's pretty sure they're the softest things he's ever felt. Doc gets in the driver's seat, starting up the engine.  
A faint _meow_ echoes from the passenger's seat, and Grian's eyes nearly pop out of their sockets.

"A cat?" Even though his ribs still ache like hell, Grian tries to lean forward. A pair of narrowed green eyes in a bundle of black fur glare back at him, and a well of emotions rise in him, too complex for him to identify. There's a lump in his throat, despite the elation bubbling up in his chest, and he presses a hand to his heart, surprised at the sudden outpour of emotions.

"Yes," Doc says. "And you better not do anything suspicious, or she will end you. And then I will double-end you. Understand?"

And even though it's a threat, Grian's felt the happiest he's been in a long, long time.

  
"Yeah," he says, lips quirking. "Yeah, I do."


End file.
